Unwritten
by daisyink
Summary: Draco decides to write, but the tale that spills out of his pen is a bit too much for him to handle. [HarryDraco, slash]


**title: **unwritten  
**rating: **PG  
**notes: **Written for the miettesdesmots challenge a LJ. Although I'm not completely pleased with it, I rather like the dialogue, especially since that's always been my weak point.  
**warning: **I still can't believe I have to do this, but apparently some people don't seem to realize that almost ALL OF MY FICS ARE SLASH. And Harry/Draco slash at that, so if you don't like, don't read.

_xx_

Draco will try to write: pick up a pen and jot some words down and _voila_! A story fit for dreams, a story that goes beyond anything anyone could ever imagine. Because to Draco, stories are for make-believe and wishing, and hoping.

He's always wanted Harry Potter to notice him and knows it will never come true; so is it any wonder that the first thing that comes to mind when he starts to write is a story featuring himself and the boy with green eyes? It will contain that elusive happily-ever-after that Draco knows he will never get, because to achieve it he needs Potter and that is simply not _possible_.

Draco writes a tale of sunsets, of whispered confessions, and heart-wrenching angst. The words come easily to him but the feeling isn't right. It's as if he's pretending to be something he's not, fantasizing about something too wrong even for fiction.

He doesn't finish, because he finds it almost impossible to find an ending that would suit such a thing. He tucks it away and vows never to let anyone set their eyes on it. It is too shameful.

The slapping of waves soothes his unsettling thoughts; the faint smell of the sea calms his uneven breaths. As far away as he is, it's unlikely that he'll be found, but he can never be sure. He hears footsteps from behind and sharply he turns around, only to be met with eyes as green as the Killing Curse, and just as deadly.

"Potter," he breathes, and it's almost as if he's living out his story; the setting is just right and the look in Harry's eyes is just begging to be explored.

"Malfoy," Harry answers. He gestures with his hand; Draco notes the thick pile of papers clenched in it, and now he knows why Harry is here.

"What is it that you want, Potter?" Draco asks evenly, wondering if he can somehow make for the pages and burn them.  
"I want to know why this—this story was in your bedroom."  
"I don't believe it concerns you."  
"Of course it concerns me!" Harry explodes. "You think I can just read something like this and walk away like it was nothing? What the hell are you playing at, Malfoy?"  
"Nothing. I simply found myself with an impulse to write, and I did. That this is the result is irrelevant."  
"You liar," Harry snarls, and the fire in his eyes is nearly enough to make Draco sigh with delight. He would never have guessed how perfectly everything would play out.

He walks away slowly and watches Harry out of the corner of his eye, making sure to indicate that he has no intention of fleeing. He picks up a forget-me-not and inhales its fragrant scent, remembering the memories, the poems and stories he has created just for the sake of the little flower. There's something intoxicating and bittersweet about it, not just in its appearance—which is rather common—but its history. The name itself completely overtook him the moment he whispered it to himself: forget-me-not. He sighs and remembers that one afternoon that he discovered its past; tragic people, wronged by fate, wore the flowers around their necks so that their lovers would not forget them.

Draco is going to make sure he will not be forgotten.

He takes the flower and crushes the petals in one brisk movement, and tucks them into his pocket. Smiling nonchalantly, he makes his way back to Potter.

"You were saying?" he inquires politely.  
"You're crazy, Malfoy," Harry says shakily, clearly taken aback by his display. "I don't know what it is you're doing, but all I know is you wrote a crazy story about me and you and I want to know why."  
"You and I," Draco corrects, and Harry glares in retaliation.  
"Very well then," Draco acquiesces, "I'll tell you. But it will take a while."  
"I have time," Harry shoots back.  
"Then we had better get settled."

They sit, cross-legged, on the balcony of Draco's cottage overlooking the ocean. It is small, and they are sitting rather too close for comfort—Harry can practically feel Draco's heartbeat. He shivers and tries to stay still.

"I've always been a bit of a dreamer," Draco says quietly, carefree demeanor gone, "even when I was a child. I didn't like to play pretend; I liked thinking about it instead, going over events over and over in my mind and changing them to my liking. I fell asleep to stories I made up to help me go to sleep."

He looks out at the setting sun before continuing. "I soon figured out a way to get my stories down on paper, something that I found exciting—the knowledge that everything I had in mind could be saved, and preserved, was almost too much. I'm not a writer, though," there are traces of sadness in his tone, "not in the true sense. I can't arrange words to look pretty, or so that they will stick in someone's mind and make them want more. All I can do is make things up and then write them down. So I abandoned it."

Unconsciously, Draco has started leaning towards Harry. At first Harry stiffens, but relaxes when he realizes that Draco isn't aware of his body's betrayal.

"I abandoned it and tried to suppress my impulses, tried to stop creating worlds and scenarios in my head. I focused entirely on my external environment, torturing others—including you and your friends—to distract myself."

"I'm sorry about that, by the way," he adds softly. "I really was rather unstable back then. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"S'okay," Harry mutters, pink blush spreading on his cheeks. He doesn't quite know why he accepted the apology, but he suspects it might have something to do with the shy, open look in Draco's soft gray eyes.

"I didn't write for almost ten years. When I was nearing my twentieth birthday, however, I couldn't stop myself; I felt as if everything around me was out of control, and I needed the escape of writing. So I picked up a pen, and I wrote.

"I didn't know at the time that this is what I would end up with, you know," Draco says softly. The excitement of their encounter has faded; he has realized that there is a difference between paper and reality. He has also realized that reality is much, much more terrifying. And real.

"I hadn't even thought of you, or Hogwarts, or anything from those days until that day. When I started writing, it just flowed out of my pen, almost as if it were writing it for me. When I finished, I felt ashamed; what right did I have to write such a thing? It made me feel as if I was some kind of needy, desperate person twisted enough to want someone who hates him to love him. I hid it in that drawer and haven't seen it until today."

There was silence all around them, save for the rhythmic splash of the waves and the calls of birds over the sea. The quiet grew, and Draco felt increasingly uncomfortable, to a point in which he could stand it no longer.

"Well, that's the story," he says briskly, feigning detachment. "So, now that you've got what you wanted, I suggest you start preparing to leave now, else the tide will get in and you'll—"  
"So that's it?" Harry bursts out unexpectedly.  
Draco stares at him blankly. "Were you expecting more of a story? Because if you were, then I apologize, but there's really nothing else to it. I told you all there was to know."  
"Not that, you idiot!" Harry says, exasperated. "You can't expect me to be satisfied with knowing only what you told me. It can't have been mere chance that the first thing you've written in ten years was about you and me."  
"Well, it really was mere chance," Draco says frankly. "I can't even explain why or how it was, but that's how it is. And please don't interrogate me about why it was a story of romance, because that would just be too embarrassing. I wouldn't be able to answer anyway, as I don't know."

"You're lying," Harry says flatly.  
"I'm not."  
"Yes, you are."  
"I can assure you, I'm not."  
"Yes, you are," Harry says with finality, and kisses Draco before he can respond. He presses his lips slowly against Draco's, finding and exploring. Draco resists at first but seen he is sighing softly against his mouth and Harry resists a smile.

He pulls away and Draco looks at him in astonishment, all wind-blown hair and reddened lips and flushed face, and Harry thinks dizzily that he has never before seen something so beautiful.

"Are--are you sure about this?" Draco asks cautiously.  
"Of course I'm not," Harry says, "but then, are we ever sure of anything? As far as I'm concerned, this is the most sure I've ever been about something, ever," and he tucks Draco's hair away from his face, just because he feels like it. Draco leans into his hand and sighs.

"So," Draco says dreamily, "you think that's it? That this is the end?"  
"The end of what?"  
"Of a chapter," Draco replies, eyes fluttering open. "That's what it feels like, doesn't it?"  
"I suppose so."  
"Well, then." Draco picks up the pages that Harry has long forgotten, and he places them reverently on the beach. He watches serenely as a wave washes over them and carries them away, until they are merely a speck on the horizon.  
At Harry's questioning look, he explains, "It's a new chapter, but the ones I wrote were even farther into the future. I don't want to spoil it."

Harry laughs and kisses him, glad that they can live out a story of their own.

_xx_


End file.
